


On Causation

by scarlett_the_seachild



Series: on causation [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Hair Kink, Hair Pulling, Light Masochism, M/M, Prostitution, Repression, Word Play, clumsy philosophy, idk Laurens doesn't take good care of himself, implied self harm maybe?, light dom, light kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: “There is not, in any single, particular instance of cause and effect, any thing which can suggest the idea of power or necessary connexion.”Alexander provides a service.





	On Causation

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird. idk why i wrote this. enjoy, i guess?

The snow was coming down hard now. For the past league Laurens had been making a pretty valiant effort at pretending it wasn’t; still, it was all very well to tell yourself that the link between stimulus and physical sensation was fallacy, the presumed correlation of cause and effect an illusion put down to human habit. Laurens could think of fireplaces and warm blankets and brandy all he liked; it didn’t change the fact that the skin showing through the holes in his gloves was purple, and he had been a fucking moron not to bring a coat.

As with most things, it had been McHenry’s fault. What had started out as light-hearted piss-taking had spiralled, the old joke of Laurens’ soft hands and thin skin, easily bruised, becoming something nasty and biting. McHenry hadn’t meant anything of it, of course he hadn’t, but Laurens had had one drink too many and banter had turned to venom and a taunt of _“Poor little poppet. Can’t even go outside without a muff”_ had been met with sarcasm, more poisonous than it was funny. The next morning, head throbbing and feeling thoroughly guilty Laurens had apologised and they were friends again. However, that didn’t stop him from leaving his heavy leather hunting coat (the one with the fur lining) at headquarters during his next reconnaissance mission, despite the foreboding sky suggesting an impending snow storm.

There had been a point, somewhere. Laurens had definitely had one in mind as he’d left the barracks that morning, wearing threadbare gloves and nothing but his uniform. It was hard to remember what it was now, though. Fortunately, Laurens did not have to push his mind for much longer as, blinking through damp, snow-sheeted eyelashes the cabin came into view and a few minutes later he was lifting a shaking hand to the doorknob.

A few seconds of wind, roaring into the tiny wooden space like a banshee and rattling the windows before Laurens shut the door behind him. Alexander and Lafayette glanced up from their chess game. There was a bottle of whiskey sitting on the table between them and it was this, combined with the blood-rousing warmth of the room emanating from a feeble fire that sent Laurens’ spirits soaring.

“Hello,” said Alexander, barely sparing him a glance before redoubling his attentions to the board.

Lafayette, however, frowned at him. “Where the devil is your coat?”

“I uh…” Laurens wrestled with the lock, making sure it was double bolted before turning to face him. “I guess I forgot it.”

“Forgot it, or forwent it?”

“Forwent it, I guess.”

“What!” Lafayette’s mouth fell open in indignation. “In this weather?”

Laurens clucked his tongue impatiently. “It wasn’t snowing when I left.”

Lafayette turned his head to goggle, scandalised, at Alexander. “Do you hear this?”

Hamilton shrugged. “We fight for the liberty to dig our own coffins,” he replied, taking Lafayette’s pawn. “If Laurens wants to prove he has enough mettle to die nobly of pneumonia then that’s his prerogative.”

“Thank you, Alex,” said Laurens.

Alexander ignored him. Laurens moved forward to pour himself a whiskey, stopping behind Hamilton’s chair to examine the game. Alexander batted him away.

“Stop,” he complained. “You know I can’t think with you standing there.”

Laurens raised the glass to his lips, little finger flicking out in the direction of the board. “Don’t do that.”

Alexander bristled. “What?”

“What you’re thinking of doing.”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow challengingly. John gestured again. “You see his bishop behind your knight?” he said. “If you move your knight there, he’ll take your rook.”

Alexander’s lip curled sullenly. Lafayette glared at him. “Next time, could you maybe put in a little more effort into freezing to death?”

Alexander took Lafayette’s bishop, Laurens looking on silently. Lafayette responded by threatening his knight; when Alex moved to protect it, he drew his queen into a fork. Hamilton swore, knocking over his king so that it almost rolled off the board and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Here,” he said with ill grace, tossing his purse at Lafayette who caught it gleefully. “Take what you can find. You’ve already bled me dry.”

“You’re impatient,” Laurens told him. “You move without thinking.”

“Damn right I’m impatient,” replied Hamilton, stretching his arms before landing them behind his head. “Been cooped up here for three days. I feel just about ready to explode. Good luck finding anything to spend that on, Gil. There isn’t a tavern or decent bawdy house for miles.”

“Why?” asked John, interested. “Have you looked?”

Hamilton nodded, smirking like he knew a secret. “Yes,” he replied. “But you’ll have to trek to the other side of the valley if you want your whistle wetting. Not that it’s the kind of company you generally care to spend a penny on. Only women, no boxers I’m afraid.”

“You do not do honour to _les belles de nuit,_ John?” asked Lafayette.

Laurens shook his head. “I prefer not to pay for my company.”

Alexander snorted. He peered at Laurens, dark blue eyes narrowing sharply. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”

John felt the skin that hadn’t been chapped by the cold prickle nervously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean heading outside on a scouting mission in the bitter cold, half naked but for the blue on your back. For God’s sake, John. What were you thinking?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” replied Alexander casually. “Only your hair’s a mess.”

Idly, Laurens moved a hand to touch it. Alexander stood up. “Here,” he said, gesturing to his vacated seat. “Let me.”

Something about the tone of his voice forbade argument. Laurens sat down. At once Alexander’s hands went to his hair, the one resting on the knotted mess of what had previously been a ponytail while the other set about untangling the ruined ribbon from the thicket. Laurens’ breath caught in his throat as Hamilton’s palm brushed the nape of his neck and he swallowed hard.

“Explain to me this exercise,” commanded Lafayette, sweeping the pieces off the board before promptly resetting them. “Was it a test of endurance?”

Laurens moved to shake his head, stopping when Hamilton wacked him lightly on the shoulder. He drew in a breath sharply, hairs on his neck standing at the unexpected pain. “Philosophy,” he replied. “I was employing Hume’s theory of causation.”

Behind him, he heard Alexander kiss his teeth. Lafayette however arched an eyebrow, leaning forward interestedly. “Really?” he asked. “Explain.”

“Well,” John began, forcing past the lump in his throat that had formed in response to Hamilton sliding his fingers through his hair. “Locke argues that experience is the root basis of all knowledge. Hume takes issue with this, arguing that just because we can observe A to cause B when the two occur together does not necessarily mean that this conjunction will continue. Rather the psychological assumption that A must always bring about B is a tenuous one, giving birth to the problem of induction. In this case: just because I observe it to snow, that shouldn’t account for my feeling the cold, or any other associative malady.”

Hamilton made a contemptuous noise. “Only a rich boy would misread that so deliberately,” he said harshly.

Laurens closed his eyes, mouth falling open slightly at the touch of Alexander’s hands on his scalp as he struggled to untangle the knots. “That sentence was inductive.”

“What about this one: John Laurens’ reluctance to pay for company has less to do with his being a miser, and more to do with his experience. Or should I say, _locke_ thereof.”

Lafayette barked out a laugh. Used to the barb, Laurens refused to let it sting. “I have a wife and child.”

Alexander shrugged. “Neither of whom I’ve ever met,” he said. “And therefore cannot have proof to exist.”

“That’s pretty fallacious reasoning.”

“But significantly lacking in fellatio, though. Unfortunately for you.”

Lafayette’s cackle was so loud a piece might have jumped off the board. Laurens, who could sense Hamilton’s self-satisfied grin as easily as if he had eyes at the back of his head, did not have the energy to reply.

Lafayette finished setting the board and began to play himself, allowing John’s mind to drift and settle on the feeling of Hamilton combing his hands through his hair. He had got out most of the tangles and was now braiding the separated sections into a plait. As Alexander’s fingers brushed and pulled John became increasingly aware of a wave like an electric shock, flowing from the root of his scalp to span his entire body, making every nerve stand on end. Heat was building in the pit of his stomach, anxious and awake and leaping at every tug of Alex’s hands, searing like a rod at the slightest catch until it was almost an unfeasible effort to keep sitting still.

At long last, Lafayette took himself to bed and Laurens found himself holding his breath. There was a new feeling now that it was just the two of them, the room somehow darker despite the steady glow of the candlelight. Hamilton’s knuckle brushed the collar of Laurens’ shirt, grazing skin against cotton.

“Fraying already,” he muttered, a little angrily. “You need to take better care of your things, John.”

Laurens’ eyes drifted to the cuff of Alexander’s own shirt. Older than his and of a poorer cotton, yet meticulously repaired and mended. “You can have the coat.”

Hamilton’s sneer was ugly. “I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I. You might as well get what you can out of it.”

“I don’t want it, damn you,” Alex snapped. “I’m not going to take care of your things for you, when you can’t be bothered.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Laurens hesitated. He could feel Hamilton’s eyes on him, hard and blazing. “Never mind,” he said at last.

Alexander breathed sharply out his nose. His fingers caught in a particularly stubborn knot; he pulled and Laurens gasped before he could stop himself, eyes rolling back into his skull. Hamilton froze.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, looking anxious. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Laurens shook his head, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed, taking a moment to gather some semblance of control before forcing himself to croak out: “Again.”

Alexander stared at him. Laurens’ eyes were still closed yet his mouth was hanging open, as if caught in a silent word. Hamilton saw his chest rise and fall, the flutter of his pulse in his neck as it skipped with anticipation. Tentatively, he wrapped his fist in Laurens’ hair and pulled again, sharper. This time Laurens’ head snapped back, revealing his throat as he let out a long, strangled groan.

Blood thudded in Alex’s ears. He gazed down at Laurens, heart racing at the sight of the faint, pink flush, creeping along his neck and jawline like the entwining vines of a late summer rose. He pulled again and Laurens arched his back, whining softly before his shoulders slumped back against the chair.

The sound was thick, rich. Sweeter than honey, than molasses. Hamilton released him automatically. His skin felt cold, clammy, yet heat rushed to his cheeks as Laurens opened his eyes. They met each other’s gaze; Alexander’s wide-eyed and guilty, Laurens’ heavy-lidded and clouded with something unreadable.

After what felt like an age, Hamilton found his voice. “Bed,” he forced out, hating how weak it sounded. “Early start tomorrow. One of us has to rendezvous with the others, we can argue in the morning about who.”

The look John gave him in response was almost accusing, so much so that Hamilton couldn’t bear to look at it. At last though Laurens got to his feet, slinking darkly into the shadows like some sort of cautious sea-creature. Alexander waited until he had closed the door behind him before going to blow out the candle.

*

In the morning, he woke up to find that Laurens had already left for the rendezvous. A small sack of coins sat at his elbow.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on a whim from 1 - 3am and i have no idea if it's any good. Would be much obliged if you'd let me know.
> 
> this will probably turn into some kind of kink series depending on reception/when i'm next bored at 3am


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